


All Men Are Prophets

by Brenda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where there's movement, there's hope.  And one thing John Winchester knows how to do is put one foot in front of the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Men Are Prophets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ileliberte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileliberte/gifts).



> Originally written in September 2009 for the SPN Summergen fic challenge. The prompt was: _John Winchester is a good father to his young sons_. This is possibly _the_ loosest interpretation of a prompt in, um, ever.
> 
> Thanks to G for the excellent betas.

John Winchester is 80 miles outside Barstow when the engine of his beat up Nova seizes and coughs to a stop. 80 miniscule miles to his destination. May as well have been a thousand.

The noisy, intermittent A/C gives a last dying wheeze, then stills, sticky warm air taking the place of Freon-induced coolness. It's barely past dawn. The ground still casts a pinkish shadow that's beautifully ephemeral, fading slowly into yellow like a week-old bruise as the sun creeps over the horizon.

John climbs out, the driver's side door protesting in a whine of steel and rust, cursing under his breath. The beat to hell car's a total POS, but ever since the Impala's been in at Bobby's for some much needed repairs and TLC, the Nova'd gotten him from place to place the past couple of weeks well enough. Until this morning. 80 fucking miles, man.

The second he steps outside, the heat hits him like a furnace blast. Must be near triple digits already and the sun's barely up. His t-shirt – once a cheerful blue faded by time and cheap laundry detergent – sticks to his skin like malevolent taffy. Sweat beads along his brow, rolls down his neck. Even the act of breathing feels like he's inhaling soup. Dean would call it lizard weather and would remind him to layer up to protect himself from sunburn since chicks aren't into the peeling skin look. Sam would remind him to keep the back of his neck and his lips moist to offset the possibility of a heat stroke.

 

(Your boys have forgotten you.)

(As long as they _need_ me, it doesn't matter if they forget.)

 

The bandage housing his hastily sewn stitches rubs against his ribs when he pops the hood, but he ignores the throbbing pain for the moment. If he can't get this cursed thing started, he's got way more to worry about than a superficial wound. At first glance, nothing seems wrong with the engine block. No hoses are disconnected, nothing's smoking or cracked or leaking. All he can hear is the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling. Which means whatever's wrong with it is beyond his limited means to fix out here in the middle of nowhere without the proper tools.

 

(Which means you're fucked.)

(Don't count on it.)

 

He spends the next few precious minutes taking stock. His cell's got no coverage – not surprising, considering; he's got four full canteens of holy water in the back seat, which aren't exactly his first choice for liquid, but beggars can't be choosers. He's got a duffel bag full of weapons and ammo in the trunk, a spare tire and wrench that are pretty much useless, and a smaller duffel bag stuffed with bloodied and dirty clothes, courtesy of a lousy, long week on the job tracking a nasty nest of vampires. His first aid kit is up to speed, for once, which definitely counts as a blessing. He's got a pretty decent map of Nevada, and a trusty compass that's survived 'Nam and been with him ever since. It's not quite 8AM on a Saturday. He's got a little over nine hours to get where he's going. He's got weapons and a mission. He has everything he needs.

No time to waste.

Twenty minutes later, after creating a makeshift backpack crammed with an extra pair of socks and shirt, water, ammo and the first aid kit, he sets out, leaving the rest behind in the secret compartment of the trunk. If he can, he'll come back for all of it. Guns aren't cheap, and a few of the other items had been hard to come by. The loss of the machete weighs especially heavy – he should have given it to Dean when he'd had the chance.

He should have done a lot of things. But regret's not gonna get him where he needs to go.

He'd taken the time to wrap a cool, wet bandana around his head for moisture (inwardly thanking Sam for the tip), and had pulled on a light-colored oxford to wear over his t-shirt to protect his arms in lieu of sunblock (and thanks Dean for that one.) His jeans and boots are already in good condition, well-worn, but with no holes. He sets off at a steady pace, and keeps close to the shoulder of the road. It'll be hotter this close to the asphalt, but he might get lucky and see another traveler. He's not counting on it, but there's nothing wrong with hope.

Stupid not to have checked the Nova out before he'd hightailed it out of New Mexico, but it's no more than he deserves for being sloppy. It had been a rookie mistake – something he would have yelled at the boys over. He knows better, knows he's been unforgivably sloppy lately, and he'll remember the lesson for next time. It's a good wakeup call. He's never been a fan of hindsight, anyway – too many people have lost their wits and lives by chasing the past and reliving every mistake like maybe, somehow, things would play out differently if they thought about it or obsessed over it hard enough. Like time's not linear and they can try to change what's come before. Like the past is waiting like a maiden in a tower for a knight in shining armor.

John's learned the hard way that there's no such thing as a benevolent ghost.

 

(You'll never make it.)

(Watch me.)

 

A grey-spotted lizard skitters in front of him, making z-patterns with its tail, disrupting the sand, then burrowing under it in a flurry of movement. It's not much, but the sign of life is appreciated. The thickness of the air is a vacuum on his tongue, seeping into his taste buds like melted anti-sugar, bitter and dull. The weight of it presses on his shoulders until he feels like Atlas, hunched and alone – only he'll take the burden and gladly if it means another step forward. He's been in worse places, worse situations – 'Nam, Laos, Vermont, Mexico City, Portland. The desert holds no grand mystery or epiphany. He's not a Biblical figure, wandering alone without a plan, praying for a miracle to save him. He'll save himself. It's what he's always done. It's the most important lesson he'd ever taught his boys.

There is no such thing as a hopeless cause. Not if the cause is just.

The road ahead shimmers like mica in a riverbed. He's afraid to blink and ruin the image, even as he squints in the glare, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses or a hat. The sun is a merciless, hot mistress beckoning him to lie down, rest, give up his burden. He feels a little like Odysseus ignoring the siren's call, tied to the earth by ropes thicker than anything made by man. He has no idea how long he's been walking, but it seems like years.

 

(You should have listened.)

(Not to you. Not ever.)

 

His feet feel like lead, weighing him down with every hard-fought stride. The water is brackish, warm, provides no respite or relief. The horizon is an endless fading sea of dust and asphalt, broken only by the lonely towers of a few saguaro cacti standing sentry in the distance. Even the wind is strangely muted, unmarred by birdsong or the roar of jets overhead or even the hissing of a snake. Nothing disturbs the fetid silence. He may as well be the last person on earth. He wonders if this is what the apocalypse feels like.

Steadily, he marches on, one dusty boot in front of the other. He can feel his wound reopen, feel the blood seeping under the bandage and along his ribs, but he doesn't dare stop. The sun's fully overhead, ruthlessly burrowing under his clothes to scald raw nerves, which means... Well, he knows what it means. No need to give voice to the hard hammer of fear lurking beneath his chest. He'll make it. He hasn't come this far to fail now. He's a Winchester. If he expects his boys to excel, he's got to lead the way.

He can practically hear the hiss of his blood boiling beneath too-thin skin. His mouth is too cracked and dry to whistle, but the who-whos from "Sympathy for the Devil" echo over and over in his head in an endless loop. Who-who. Who-who. He needs shelter from the sun and to rest his weary, too-old body. But he needs to keep moving more. Each step is a triumph of will and spirit over inertia and doubt. Each step is a testament, even if it's only to his small church of one, that he will make it.

 

Unseen black eyes watch his slow, shuffled progress with malicious glee. Invisible hands rub in anticipation. Time for a new obstacle. The great John Winchester laid low by nature's fury. There's a beautifully poetic irony in the concept.

 

(This is a futile gesture, John.)

(Nothing done out of love is futile.)

 

His vision blurs until he remembers to blink. Shimmering shapes snap into focus – the bleached white of the sand, the spikes of the tumbleweed drifting past, the silver-spotted black of the highway before him. Concentrate, John, concentrate. Sweat rolls down his forehead and neck, sizzles along his spine. His lungs feel too heavy for his chest. Each breath is an effort. His steps slow.

A hazy puff of smoke appears over the horizon, flickers like the last vestiges of a dream. When he narrows his eyes, he can barely make out the flashing glint of metal. In the still, unnatural silence, he thinks he hears the throaty whine of an engine.

 

Behind him, a screeching howl of rage falls on deaf ears.


End file.
